


Key To The Highway

by lucylupin



Category: Reservoir Dogs (1992)
Genre: AU, Canon-typical levels of poor decision making, Creamsicle - Freeform, M/M, eventual getaway, freddy is a useless undercover, gratuitous references to music, joe cabot is clueless as always, larry has big daddy energy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22483399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucylupin/pseuds/lucylupin
Summary: "Are you free Saturday night?"Freddy's heart does a perfect somersault in his chest. Olympic silver, at least. He gets up and starts pacing the living room."Uhhh… Saturday?" Of course he’s free. He is free every night. His life is nothing now but going for groceries and waiting around for calls, and there’s about three people in the world that would (or could) call him. White is not one of them, and Freddy doesn’t know if he feels worried or excited. "Yeah, I'm free. How did you get my phone number?"Larry’s laugh sounds low and coarse through the phone, “Joe gave it to me,” a pause, "I've got to pick up some merch from a place downtown. Could use a hand."
Relationships: Mr. Orange/Mr. White (Reservoir Dogs)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 128





	Key To The Highway

**Author's Note:**

> There's no excuse for this, i just want Freddy and Larry to have fun.  
> Thanks to @anticmiscellaney on tumblr for the beta and everything else.

"So. What's this about?" And before there's a chance for an answer, "you want a drink?"

Joe Cabot starts circling his desk and walks to the cabinet. He takes an ornamented cut crystal bottle of whiskey and pours himself a long shot into a tumbler. No ice.

"Yeah, but just a nip. On the rocks"

Joe takes another tumbler from a shelf and uses a pair of tongs to carefully put two clear ice cubes inside, then pours another drink. He brings it to Larry's hands and looks at him with drawn up brows, expectant.

"I got a small job downtown, few nights from today," Larry starts, "pick up some boxes from a store, very easy thing."

Joe's back behind his desk. He sits down and motions for Larry to do the same.

"Good for you. 'S long as it doesn't interfere with our thing I've got no problem about it; you know that. Making good dough out of it?"

Larry shrugs noncommittally. "Just a few thousand. As I said, it's not big." He pauses, turning the glass in his hands before looking up. He wants to sound disinterested; he wants to _be_ disinterested, "Thing is. I'm gonna need an extra pair of hands; thought I could bring the kid."

Joe furrows his brows. "The kid? What kid?"

"I mean Mr. Orange," Joe's eyes widen, but Larry doesn't give him a chance to speak, "I know what you said, but this is still work. I could seize the boy up, see how he handles himself.” Larry wants to make it sound like he’s doing Joe a favor, but the truth is he’s taken a bit of a personal interest in the kid, “And since you introduced us… well, you'd get a cut of it."

Joe muses for a moment, takes a sip of his drink; his face remains impassible, there's no way of telling what's going through his mind. Larry wonders if he should have waited until the job was over to act on these personal interests of him.

"Mr. Orange, uh? Well, it'd be good to see how he manages…" he nods absentmindedly. "D'you talk to him yet?"

Larry shakes his head and tilts back the tumbler until the last drops of whiskey fall on his mouth. The ice cubes clink when he leaves it back on the table. "No, I wanted to talk to you first, see how you felt about it."

"Good." Joe nods again and draws a dry smile. "Yeah, I think that could work. No need to give me any cut of anything." He makes a dismissive motion with his arm. "Just report back to me afterwards."

Larry smiles at him and his shoulders rest a little easier. "Of course, Papa."

* * *

Freddy is sprawled on his couch flipping through a Spider-Man issue; every few minutes his hand wanders to the floor where a cereal box stands, grabs a few colorful grains and drops them into his mouth. It’s one of those weird days where no one is expecting him anywhere, could do whatever he wanted, but he still has to be around the cellphone and he doesn’t feel like answering calls from criminals or cops in the middle of the street, so he stays home.

It’s one of the good and bad things of the undercover job, the stretches of time between his two lives where he’s free to do whatever he wants as long as he keeps himself a phone call away. Sometimes it’s really boring, sometimes it’s a great opportunity to binge read comics.

As if summoned by his thoughts, his phone rings. He stretches himself to reach the table without getting up and yanks it with a hand, flipping it open and propping it up against his ear and shoulder.

"Yeah?" His morning voice comes out in an embarrassing squawk.

"Hey, kid," _Larry. No, shit. Mr. White_.

Freddy feels a flutter in his stomach, slowly brings his legs to the floor and sits up on the sofa, accidentally knocking off the cereal box. He brushes his hair back with a hand as if the man could see him through the phone.

"Hey, White," he tries to make his voice fall into Mr. Orange’s cool and collected pace.

"Are you free Saturday night?"

Freddy's heart does a perfect somersault in his chest. Olympic silver, at least. He gets up and starts pacing the living room.

"Uhhh… Saturday?" Of course he’s free. He is free every night. His life is nothing now but going for groceries and waiting around for calls, and there’s about three people in the world that would (or _could_ ) call him. White is not one of them, and Freddy doesn’t know if he feels worried or excited. "Yeah, I'm free. How did you get my phone number?"

Larry’s laugh sounds low and coarse through the phone, “Joe gave it to me,” a pause, "I've got to pick up some merch from a place downtown. Could use a hand."

Freddy stops dead on his tracks. Is Larry asking him for help with a job? A possibly (probably, definitely) _illegal_ job? Transportation of stolen goods, by the sound of it. Before he can blurt out in compliance he breathes slowly, has to remind himself that this is a violent criminal he’s dealing with. He weights out his options for a moment. This is the work of an undercover cop, right? Being there while the crimes are being committed.

"Yeah, sure. What do I gotta do?" _screw it_ , it was Holdaway who told him to get close to his partners.

"Don't worry about it. I'll pick you up." _Click_. The call ends.

Freddy lets out a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding, and stares blankly at his apartment around him. His open phone stares back at him, and he considers for a moment if he should call Holdaway and explain the situation. What would the man say? The whole thing seems like a test for Freddy to prove himself to Joe; maybe Holdaway would agree that he's got to follow Larry's lead and go for it; but what if he told him not to get involved, to call Larry and say he ain't free Saturday?

He slowly closes the phone and leaves it on the table, then steps away, unsure, still looking at it. He'll tell Holdaway later, after Saturday, when it's done and Freddy's sure what it is about. He can always say he didn't know where White was taking him.

Freddy tells himself this has got nothing to do with the uneasy feeling that’s been growing in his stomach everytime he thinks about Larry, or how the older man’s way of looking at him at the bar the first night they met has been burning in his mind ever since.

He spends the next three days counting down the hours as the tension slowly builds inside him, coiling up in his stomach. It's not only engaging in illegal activity that makes him nervous; the prospect of spending time alone with White at night is so galvanizing that it makes his head spin, and he tries not to think too much about it because every time he does he ends up pacing the room nervously and unable to sit. So he _doesn't_ think about it, but still looks at the watch every fifteen minutes, making math in his head to figure out how much longer he has to wait.

Saturday morning is spent deciding which clothes to wear; Freddy wants to make the right impression, but he wants to look good, too; most of all, he doesn't want to come across as a rookie idiot. After much musing he chooses an outfit that seems appropriate for nightly felonies but will also make him look good: his best fitting black jeans, a black t-shirt, his leather jacket; he adds in a cool black beanie for good measure and hopes Larry won’t find him ridiculous. When afternoon rolls around he takes a shower and then stands in front of his mirror for a long time, studying himself and whispering words of encouragement. He’s done by four, fully aware that Larry won’t call him until the night, so he sits in front of the TV to let the time pass as he waits.

Freddy is bolted awake by a loud ringing, the room dark around him. He tries to get up, staggers, almost throws himself against the table in an attempt to grab the phone. He has to blink a few times and rub his eyes as he flips it open. “Yeah?”

“Hey kiddo,” suddenly it all comes back in a rush. He fell asleep while waiting for White. _Oh shit, I hope I didn’t fuck up already._

“Hey, is everything alright?” He aims for a nonchalant tone, but lands a more on weary.

Larry’s laugh is soothing, “Yeah, you ready?”

Freddy can feel his knees shaking a little, “I am, yes.”

“I’m outside.”

He lets out a slow breath, sits back to collect himself, and then he notices his t-shirt is wrinkled from sleeping on the couch. _Shit_. There goes his stupid-perfect outfit. He shakes his head, tells himself the situation might be above his dumb clothes and above trying to impress a career criminal. After a moment he gets up and grabs his things, puts on his jacket, winks at the mirror and gets out the door.

Larry is leaning on the side of a small truck, all dressed in black as well, smoking a cigarette with that same attitude that accompanies him always, elegant but imposing. He smiles at him and gives him a friendly pat on the back before getting around to climb on the driver’s side. “Nervous?”

Freddy shakes his head, ignoring the tickly feeling in his chest. He gets on the passenger seat, sits laying back a little, smirking, “Nah, I’m good.” He takes his packet out of the jean’s pocket and fishes out a smoke, catching it between his lips. Even as he drives, Larry offers him his lighter, and Freddy leans closer and breathes in slowly, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

Larry gives him a sideways glance and a smile, and turns the radio up; Dr. John's soft singing fills the car _...such a night, it's such a night, sweet confusion under the moonlight…_ The drive is relaxed in the late night traffic, and Freddy _is_ a little uneasy, but a comfortable silence falls between the two of them as the radio plays. They make it downtown in record time.

Larry parks in the rear entrance of a store and gets out, signaling Freddy to follow him. They go around the back of the truck and Larry opens the doors, leans in and takes something long and heavy out; a giant pair of bolt cutters. For the first time, his own naivety dawns on Freddy; they’re not going to transport stolen goods, they’re going to break into a store and _steal_ them.

Freddy thinks this might be more than he bargained for, but it’s too late now to back away, he’ll roll with the punches. He doesn't know if he should feel bad; logically, he should feel guilty that he's going about this behind the backs of his superiors. He’s a cop, for fuck’s sake. But for some reason what he feels is a rush of adrenaline in his stomach, the possibility of being caught a thrill more than a threat. The excitement makes it easier to shove his concerns about duty and allegiance aside, save them for another time and focus now on the man in front of him.

Larry kneels facing the door and starts working on the chains that lock its metal reinforcements. From where Freddy stands he can see his strong back, the shirt shifting slightly as he moves his arms. It clings to his muscles, stretches a little on his upper back and hungs loser right where it has slipped untucked from his pants; there he can see a small patch of skin, tan and damp with sweat.

After a few minutes the chains are all broken in a pile on the floor. With a huff Larry gets up and starts sliding the doors open, and Freddy steps up to help him. Their bodies stand a little too close as they pull on the metal frame; he can _feel_ Larry even if they’re not quite touching, and he starts to wonder if Larry feels him too, what might be going on in the man’s mind.

He has to step back because suddenly the heat in his stomach starts to spread, and he isn’t sure if it is just from nerves anymore. He makes an effort to break the silence.

“Don't people put alarms in their stores?” Freddy's genuinely surprised it's gonna be this easy. He had imagined a more hazardous venture; disabling an alarm before it had a chance to go off, make use of a secret passcode provided by a double-dealing fink. Larry offers a shrug.

“There's dumb people in this world, kid. A good thief learns to recognise them.”

Then, Larry looks at him with a smile and produces a small gun from underneath his jacket; he holds it up in front of him.

“Know how to use one of these, right?”

Freddy nods, he’s got two of them with him, but Larry doesn't know that, “Of course.”

“Good. Just stand here like a good boy, I’ll be out in a minute,” he passes the gun to Freddy and disappears beyond the darkness of the doors.

Freddy stands there, a bit dumbfounded, turning the pistol in his hand. There is something funny about the weapon, it feels way too light for its size, not quite like the ones he’s used. He holds it close to his face, squinting in the dim yellow light of the streetlamps to look at it, until he realizes. It’s a BB gun with the orange cap pulled out. He rolls his eyes. _Does he think I’m a little kid or what?_

A heavy hand on his shoulder startles him, “Well kid, time to do some heavy work.”

_Yeah, he definitely does._

Larry is pulling out a big rack on wheels out of the door, full of… BMX bikes. Freddy stands there, his brows furrowed in confusion. The big time crook is stealing kiddy bicycles? Larry points with his thumb to his back and raises a brow. “Are you gonna help or are you gonna stand there all night with your mouth open?”

Freddy blinks a couple times, nods and fits the barrel of the gun inside his belt before going inside; there are half a dozen more racks, enough to fill the whole truck, and when he starts moving the first one he realizes they're heavier than he thought. He has to get behind and push it with all his strength to make it advance. Meanwhile, Larry has loaded the first one and is coming in to pull another, drags it out with just one hand, his bicep tightening and swelling against the cuff of this shirt.

“C’mon boy, we ain’t got all night,” Larry throws him a look but there’s a smile on his face.

When they’re done Freddy is panting sighly and sweating, trying not to bend in half to rest his hands on his knees; he took the jacket off a while ago and he feels his underarms clammy with sweat. He’s sure he must stink. Larry is barely out of breath, still standing up with a straight back and squared shoulders; he gives Freddy a minute to catch his breath, then gives him a smirk.

“Well, we don’t wanna hang around here all night, now, do we?”

Freddy takes another deep breath and nods, following Larry to the car and getting into the passenger seat. He turns to look at Larry as he starts the engine and shifts the gear.

“So… what’re you gonna do with the bikes?”

“Take ‘em for a spin, what do you think?” he lets out a patient laugh, “Nah, a guy in Santa Bárbara is gonna take ‘em from me, he’s got a big sports outlet.”

“Ah, so you already have a buyer.”

“Of course I have a buyer. Kid, learn this lesson and learn it good,” Larry lifts a hand from the wheel and puts up his index to emphasize his words, there’s a teacherly manner to his voice, “Never steal anything you can’t get rid of. You always gotta have a fence, someone who’s gonna take it from you for an arranged prize,” every few moments Larry looks away from the road to make sure Freddy’s listening, “If you don’t, you gonna end up with the stuff stuck on some warehouse, eating up storage money, running the risk of getting caught…”

Freddy nods absent-mindedly.

“You don’t wanna deal with that,” Larry continues, “I learned that the hard way, way back in the day,” he makes a gesture with his hand like he’s pointing very far behind, “So, don’t ever steal something that you can’t sell. Remember that.”

He’s about to speak again when a patrol car steers from a side street and gets beside them, matching their speed. Freddy tries not to appear startled, but suddenly his mind is going a thousand miles a minute. Are they here for them? It’s not possible, nobody knows he’s here, there’s no way they’ve found out about the bikes already. He looks nervously from them, to White, to the road ahead; his right hand grabs the edge of seat on his side, his knuckles turning white from the pressure, the heat in his gut, both from fear and excitement, is coming back.

“Hey, hey,” White is relaxed, almost laughing, “loosen up, kid. We’re good. I’m not even speeding,” he gives Freddy a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, “C’mon, let’s listen to some music.”

He turns the radio on and dials until the familiar low voice of a DJ fills the car, “...I-L-L-Y, Home of Rock. That was Bob Dylan’s _On a Night Like This_ , which reached #44 on April 1974. Next up, the Steve Miller Band…”

A drum beat starts as they turn a street and lose the patrol car; Freddy breathes a little easier, smiles, but then notices they’re about to reach his apartment. He feels a sense of disappointment, like the night ended too soon, and immediately a pang of guilt. He reminds himself he’s doing all of this because it’s part of his job; but still, he can’t deny the reality of the sense of fulfillment that’s been growing inside him since Larry called him. Like whatever the man asked of him, he would say yes, and he would like it.

“Hey, White…” he starts, unsure of what to say, but Larry talks at the same time.

“Here kid, this is for you,” he tosses a closed envelope to his knees. Freddy picks it up and peers inside: a stack of fifty dollar bills that must amount to at least two grand. He lets out an impressed whistle between his teeth; he hasn’t seen that much money together in a long time. All this just for a couple hours of work? He looks up at Larry with wide eyes just as the man brings the car to a stop in front of his building.

“I… um, I don’t… thank you.” He hadn't even considered White was gonna pay him, he thought he was gonna get nothing more out of this than his chance to prove himself to him, and by extension to Joe Cabot.

Larry smiles at him and Freddy feels something inside him stir. “You earned, kid. Now get some sleep.”

A last friendly pat on his back, softer this time, and higher than before, almost on the nape of his neck; Larry’s fingers linger for a moment as Freddy gets out of the truck. He turns around and gives Larry a wave of the hand and a sheepish smile. His knees feel weak. “Good night, Mr. White.”

As he walks toward his door he can still hear the faint sound of the song coming from the radio.

_They got the money, hey,_

_you know they got away,_

_they headed down south, and they're still running today,_

_singing..._

_go on, take the money and run..._

**Author's Note:**

> Songs mentioned:
> 
>  _Such a Night_ by Dr. John
> 
>  _Take The Money And Run_ by Steve Miller Band
> 
> The title of the fic comes from B.B. King's song and the one for this particular chapter is from _Night_ by Bruce Springsteen but also the amazing 1988 movie.


End file.
